A blonde receptionist—mid-twenties, perfect smile, unnaturally white teeth—glances up as the elevator doors slide open. Her smile falters for just a fraction of a second when she sees Y/n step out.

Not that Y/n notices. Or cares.

The twenty-seventh floor is pristine. Chrome fixtures. Abstract art that probably costs more than most people's homes. A single reception desk sits at the center, and behind it, a nameplate gleams: Reed International — Executive Floor.

The hallway stretches ahead, lined with frosted glass doors and the soft hum of expensive machinery. Every surface reflects light. Every corner is polished. And at the end of it all, behind a door twice as tall as the others, waits Evander Reed.

A faint murmur of voices filters through the wood. One sharp, clipped. Female.